The Poetic Killer
“Boss, you won’t believe what I found.” I said to the police commissioner. “What is it?” He asked reaching for the sheet of paper covered in blood that I held. “I found this on the desk of the victim.” I responded. He read that note and this is what was on it: Don’t you ever find yourself tormented by the lyrics of a song that you know too well. A song that rings over and over again that its meaning is understood and taken to a more personal level. I felt that same sense of adventure from all the songs that talked of murder and crime and all the glories of being a murderer. I honestly don’t know why I wrote the lyrics most famed to me on my arm. They were spelled in the right way but coloured in red. I read them aloud whenever I approached my victims. They’d looked confused as I read them more clearly and in depth. I love to see that same reaction of fright and confusion as they beg and plead for mercy. It fuddles the minds of others as they see these words that I hum out on the bodies that I come across. I hear so many nicknames for me over the news, “The Poetic Killer,” “The Sing-Song Slasher.” I found them all redundant but I favored the “Poetic Killer” one much more. I enjoyed sharing this story with you but I’m afraid that I must… cut this short. But don’t worry, I’ll be back soon, it was lovely talking to you and maybe we can exchange our mutual feelings when I come around the next time, and I do hope that you won’t be as petrified as before. And yes Mr. Morrissey I do love the romance of crime. -The Poetic Killer- I looked over at the commissioner. He was a bit confused by the letter and had set it aside for evidence. “I want you to tell me what is going on.” He said to me. “I don’t know sir, that’s all we found beside the victim.” The commissioner didn’t look too happy about this. The Poetic Killer has been at large for years. It was a growing problem in our city but no one has ever been able to find him. It was getting quiet in the room, I sat in the chair hoping that the commissioner would calm down and resume his questioning. “That motherfucker needs to be found.” The Commissioner spoke, turning towards the window. The streets were practically empty and it was dark out. “Sir, we’re trying our best to find him.” “Trying isn’t worth shit, you got that Samson?” the commissioner shouted at me. There was nothing I could say to contradict his statement and I sat there and waited for him to press on. But he had nothing to say, he didn’t look at me for the next few minutes and the silence was getting a little awkward. “Sir, shall I take my leave?” I asked expecting to be dismissed, but I got no answer. The commissioner still stood at the window and I felt a bit unsettled by his still pose. “Sir?” I tried to get to him once more. I crept more closer to him, hearing a small sound but I’m guessing that it was coming from the outside. Suddenly I was caught by the neck by something unknown. I was brought down on the ground and dragged away as the commissioner fell. His face was happy in expression, that was confusing, why was he fucking smiling? He moved and I tried to get a look of who was strangling me. I shook and broke free from his grip and I looked at the man. He wore a mask, it had writing on it. I didn’t know what the words were, because they were too small in font and there was so many words written. “Mr. Samson. Don’t be afraid.” He said. I looked back at the commissioner and he was finally on his feet. He kept the smile on his face and I barked at him. “Commissioner, what the fuck is going on!?” I yelled. He rushed to grab my arms. I tried to make him let go of me but he was too strong and the Poetic Killer was getting too close to me. “Over the moor, take me to the moor. Dig a shallow grave, and I'll lay me down.” He sang to me. I could feel the cold steel touch my neck and there he slid it to the right and my throat was slit. I choked up with my life being limited to only a few seconds. I bled out and was released. There I lie on the floor, with blood puddling around me. Category:Mental Illness